


Art Box

by blushing_phan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:39:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7659646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushing_phan/pseuds/blushing_phan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Lester is nearly 30 and has never known the color of his own eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Box

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic is in no way original or creative; it is one of several hundred Soulmate AUs and contains nothing but pure, soft fluff. That being said, however, I do think it's quite cute and its sole purpose is to make you smile. Enjoy! Leave feedback or any comment you have if you'd like, I appreciate it more than you could ever know!

An achromatic world is not necessarily an unbeautiful one, but Phil would have liked to at least know what color his eyes were.  
He'd asked his parents, when he was much younger, to describe them in ways he could understand, and his mother had told him to think of the way rain sounds against glass window panes or how the ocean smells very early in the morning. He'd asked what the color was called. 

“Blue,” She’d told him, with his cheek cupped in her hand. “The most beautiful blue.” But today, nearly thirty years old, Phil gazed into the mirror and saw nothing but the same whitish-grey color he'd always seen. 

Now, it wasn't that he hadn't tried. He had, quite a few times. 

But the thing of it was, once they began to realize that their worlds were still only full of variations of alabaster and charcoal, there was no longer a point to any of it. Sometimes, it was heartbreaking watching people cling to one another, desperately hoping to find a flush of “red” in an apple, or a hint of “green” in the grass, or maybe even the illusive “blue” in the sky. 

Phil knew that much. That the sky was meant to be blue. 

He only knew, though, because he'd read about it. He'd read about all the colors, learned as much as he possibly could about all of them, because he wanted to be prepared when the time came, and he was, at last, able to see every single one of them, in every single shade and hue. 

Although, lately, it seemed that “when” was slowly morphing into “if”. 

It was possible remain Achro (the term used to describe people who could only see in black and white) forever. It was always a sorrowful mishap. 

Phil tried to be optimistic about the whole thing, and he was rather optimistic about things in general, but it seemed to him that everybody around him, all of his friends and his brother, strangers on the streets, were all seeing the world in a way he might never get to see it. Worse, though, is that they were experiencing something he might never get to experience. 

Being in love. 

“Don't worry, Philly,” They told him, “Your time will come.” 

But when? 

As much as he tried to be patient, Phil was becoming restless. At thirty years old, he had expected to be married, maybe with a whole family. A house. A dog. But no, here he sat in his apartment, which was meant to be small, but felt far, far too big because he was the only one in it. Alone. 

Another side effect of color blindness was that it was treated as a disability, one that was impossible to disguise. 

In clothing stores, sectioned off aisles held clothes specifically meant for Achro people, ensuring that they never had to suffer the embarrassment that accompanied wearing clothes that didn't match. So even to those with the pleasure of viewing the word through a rainbow lense, those lost souls with no soulmate were still swathed in black and white. 

Often, if he thought about it too much, he could feel tears behind his eyes and crippling dejection in his heart, causing his entire body to ache with loneliness. So, he tried not to dwell. He really did, but he often found himself dwelling anyway. Even on the day that everything changed. 

It was early August, when the mornings were too cool to match the sweltering afternoons, when all the world was abuzz with the promise of autumn and “Back to school!” advertisements, and the supermarket was alive with chatty moms buying healthy snacks for reluctant children. Phil’s basket hung from his arm, already halfway full of essential things like three boxes of the same type of cereal, and he was standing in the produce section, an orange in one hand. 

He had heard somewhere that oranges were named for their color. He loved the taste of them; tangy, sweet, rejuvenating. So he imagined that the color “orange” was bright and attracted attention. 

Still gazing down at the fruit, thinking intently about orange, he turned and continued to wander down the aisle. 

Maybe orange would be his favorite color, but it was hard to figure the allure of a color based on what it tasted like. Chocolate, he'd read, was a deep color called “brown” that, apparently, wasn't very pretty at all, and chocolate was one of his favorite foods in the whole world. 

Phil was contemplating his hypothetical favorite color, when he ran straight into a metal shopping cart. He dropped his orange in surprise, and, in an attempt to diffuse the horrendously awkward encounter he was bound to have with the owner of the cart, he dipped down to retrieve it. 

Apparently, Shopping Cart Driver had the same idea, because as Phil leaned down to pick up the fruit, he collided with them again, this time, head first. 

“Oh, fuck,” Said the other voice, and Phil stumbled back, rubbing the top of his head and laughing, because it was truly only his luck that would result in such cripplingly humiliating circumstances. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn't-” Phil was saying, as he rose his eyes, but he was startled by the fact that the stranger was staring at him and gripping his orange. “W-wasn't paying attention.” 

“No! No,” said the stranger, blinking his eyes and shaking his head, casting a smile that created dimples in his cheeks. “It's all right. I should've been watching what I was doing. Damn cart.” 

After a beat of silence, he looked down at the orange in his hand, before hastily offering it back. 

“Here's your...your fruit,” He said, looking embarrassed. 

Phil took it, gazing down at it briefly. “Well...sorry…a-again,” He said, before he hurried off, unsure if he would survive another moment of the painfully awkward encounter. If he had willed himself to glance over his shoulder, he would have found the stranger with the dimples watching him go. 

Phil didn't notice any sort of change, not at first. 

After he left the supermarket, Phil’s next stop was the florist, and even though it was always a touch embarrassing to have to ask one of the assistants what colors the flowers were, he enjoyed going there anyways. 

He really did love flowers. 

The scent of all the blossoms tickled his senses in the most pleasant of ways as he chatted with the florist, whose nametag read ‘Garcia’, trying to ignore the piteous look in her eyes that had ignited when he explained his circumstances. 

“Most Achros avoid flower shops,” She was saying, and Phil’s smile was only a little forced. This girl couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age, yet a wedding band shimmered on her left hand. “I was lucky enough to meet Serena in high school.” 

Phil felt the familiar combination of jealousy and despair that often accompanied hearing of other people’s romantic encounters twist inside his belly. 

“O-Oh, wow,” Phil said, his enthusiasm wavering dramatically. His gaze shifted to his own hands, hands that had never been held by someone who loved him truly, his naked ring finger. 

Before he could stop them, he felt tears behind his eyes. 

Garcia noticed them too, because her tone shifted from bright and amiable to gentle, almost regretful. She looked down at the bouquet in her hands, which, she had told Phil, were a soft color called “pink” and a warm, sprightly color, “yellow”. 

“I’ll go wrap these for you, Honey.” 

With his flowers cradled in his arms and his bag of groceries hanging from the crook of his elbow, Phil made his way down the busy sidewalk towards home. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, hadn’t felt his tummy rumbling until he happened past one of his favorite cafes. 

The scent of coffee was one of his favorites; it reminded him of his mother and the chilly mornings of his February birthdays, when she would wake him up early and they would sit together near the window in the kitchen, sharing a cup of hot coffee and watching feathery snowflakes settle over the world. 

Phil had always liked snow because it seemed like a friend; it was white, and Phil could see that it was white. He didn't have to guess or try to imagine what it was really like to see the snow. It was one of the rare, beautiful things that Phil was able to enjoy in its entirety. 

Ease settled over Phil’s body as he placed his groceries and his flowers beside him on the bench he had chosen to sit on, a paper bag containing a muffin sitting on his knee, a paper cup containing a hazelnut coffee spreading warmth into his fingers and along his arm, causing a slight shiver to pass over him. 

He took the protective lid off of the cup and raised it to his nose, slowly inhaling the sweetness that curled off of the surface in the configuration of steam, his eyes fluttering closed. Phil was about to take a small sip to test the temperature, when he stopped dead in his tracks; the coffee was no longer grayish and murky, but a deep, rich hue. 

Phil dropped the cup in shock, looking around in bewilderment. The paper bag on his knee had metamorphosed, too, and was now the same color that his coffee had been, a handful of shades lighter. 

Unwilling to believe it, Phil grabbed the bag and held it less than an inch from his face, before squeezing his eyes shut. He counted up to ten, forcing himself to count at a slow pace, before opening up his eyes again. 

The color was still there. 

“Excuse me!” Phil called out impulsively, to a middle aged woman who was holding the hand of a small girl. He tripped to his feet, the bag clutched to his chest, and hurried over to her. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, f-forgive me for bothering you, but could you please tell me what color this is?” He blurted out, thrusting the bag into her face, his mouth working at a mile a minute, but that was nothing compared to the way his mind was racing. 

The woman, at first, looked mystified, but after a moment, her face changed from perplexed to knowing, to kindly. 

“Why, it's brown.” 

“Oh,” Phil said softly, gazing down at the object gripped between his hands, his mind linking the color and the word with the scent of hazelnuts and the taste of chocolate. “Brown...it's a beautiful color. The loveliest color I've ever seen,” Phil stopped, blinking. “Ah- well, it's the only color I've ever seen, but even so...Thank you,” he said, gripping the woman’s hand tightly in his own. “Thank you so much.” 

She looked down at her daughter, then up at Phil, giving his hand a warm squeeze in return. 

“Go find them.” 

That was precisely what Phil planned on doing. 

Although he had never considering himself to be particularly religious, Phil prayed a collective prayer to every deity, every mythical being, every God, that he hadn't simply brushed by them at some point in the day. If that were the case, it would take ages to find them again. 

Even in his frantic flurry, Phil couldn't help but notice all of the newly-brown things surrounding him; buildings, storefronts, signs, even the trunks of trees, had broken into the spectrum of color. 

At the cafe he'd bought his lunch from, Phil nearly ran into the till as he skidded to a stop before it; the barista who had taken his order was, blessedly, still working, and he seemed surprised to see Phil again. 

“Hello, it's me. From earlier.” a silly thing to say, perhaps, but it was something of a miracle that Phil’s brain and mouth were still working in tandem, considering the circumstances. “I don't mean to sound rude, but how many colors can you see?” 

The boy looked around, and Phil could see hope in his eyes and his heart began to flutter, but the longer the barista, whose name tag read Morgan, gazed around, the more and more apparent it became: He wasn't the one. 

“I...I can't see any of them. I’m so sorry…” Morgan said, his tone thick with disappointment. Phil felt a twinge of sympathy. “No, please...don't be sorry to me,” he paused, “and don't lose faith. I’ll be thirty soon, and I've just today...somewhere, met mine. I've got to go find them,” he said, before he dug a handful of money from his back pocket, the change from the purchase he had made before, and placed it all on the counter. “Thank you.” 

Before Morgan could respond, Phil was racing back out into the London foot traffic, and as he scooped the money into the change jar situated on the edge of the counter, Morgan couldn't help but hope that the man, whoever he was, found his person. 

It was impressive, truly, the velocity at which Phil managed to reach the florist; his thighs and ankles ached in protest, but his hopes were high enough to tranquilize the pain. The initial walk between the flower shop and the cafe had taken a little over 20 minutes; Phil backtracked it in 10, his heart pounding so rapidly that he could feel it in the tips of his fingers. 

He burst through the door, looking around in frantic urgency. 

“Oh, it's you!” said Garcia from behind the counter. “Is something wrong with the fl-” 

“No, no!” Phil interjected, and under any typical circumstance, he would have regretted behaving so rudely, but he hadn't the time to feel guilty. “They're lovely- the flowers, I mean.” His eyes strayed to the ring on Garcia’s hand; he was sure of the fact that it wasn't her, but he could at least get information from her, couldn't he? 

“This bag is brown,” Phil said, holding up the paper bag that was crumpled now from being gripped so tightly. “And the counter is brown, and tree trunks are brown. I can see it,” 

Garcia’s eyes lit up, and surely she was remembering that, hardly an hour beforehand, Phil had been completely colorblind. 

“How did you know? That...that you'd found her. Your...your soulmate?” 

Garcia looked down at her hands, thoughtful, a smile tugging at her lips. 

“They came slowly, the colors. All I could see, initially, was green. I wasn't sure why. Why green? It took me months to figure it out,” 

Phil swallowed with a little bit of difficulty; months? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to wait that long. 

Garcia continued. “Looking back now, it seems silly I didn’t realize it sooner. It seems so obvious to me that I wish...I wish I could go back and figure it out quicker...I wasted so much time…” 

Phil was truly attempting not to be impatient. “You could help me figure it out right now! Then I won’t waste any time!” 

“Oh! Yes, yes! The reason I could only see green was because...Serena’s eyes are green.” 

_Brown! Their eyes are brown!_

Phil thanked Garcia in a hurry, his words scrambled and rushed, before he was darting back out into the streets, his mind buzzing with his newly acquired information. He wasn’t sure exactly how many people had brown eyes, but it narrowed the search a little, didn’t it? 

The last remaining place to visit was Phil’s last hope, at least for today; the supermarket. Phil was breathless; his knees trembled as he pushed the doors of the market, though he wondered if it were due to the fatigue settling over his body or the anxiety crawling up his spine. 

_What if they’re disappointed by me? What if I’m not what they expected…? There’s a fair chance they aren't here, isn't there? Oh, what will I do then? I've got to find them...I’ve just got to...I’ve waited for so, so long-_

Phil’s turmoiled inner dialogue was cut abruptly short by a loud voice, and he looked around, addled. 

“-here just this morning! You've got to help me!” Phil’s eyes found the source of the flustered speech, and his heart shot into his throat. 

It was the boy with the cart. 

His gesticulation was wide and agitated, limbs flailing, hands gripping at his hair, (which, Phil noted, was brown) distrait. Phil was frozen, but his blood ran hot. He couldn't dare let his hopes climb too high, but up and up they went anyways. 

“Excuse me,” Phil said, but it came out in a trembly, broken whisper. He cleared his throat, his hands curling into fists at his sides. 

_Your life could change forever._

“Excuse me!” He repeated, taking a handful of nerve-ridden steps towards the stricken employee and the boy, who whirled around. The boy closed the gap between them in a couple of strides; he reached out, cupping Phil’s cheek in his palm, tipping his head up ever-so-slightly. 

“It is you.” He murmured, his voice was soft and eloquent, almost posh. “Your eyes…” Phil felt dizzy; his breath caught in his throat with each inhale. 

“Don’t cry!” The boy said, his tone mingled with laughter born from disbelief, and Phil hadn’t even noticed the tears rolling down his cheeks until thumbs were brushing them carefully away. “I’m Daniel...But, everybody calls me Dan.” 

Phil laughed; what a beautiful name! “Philip...I go by Phil. though.” 

Dan was crying now, too, and Phil couldn’t help but fling his arms around Dan’s neck, yanking him into an embrace, before pulling back to gaze at him. 

“You have the most beautiful eyes.” Phil whispered, and although the world around him was flooding with color now, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Dan; his skin was slightly tanned, and there were a handful of darker beauty marks on his cheeks, which were flustered and, Phil could hardly believe it, dusted pink. “Oh, you’re beautiful…” 

“You’re beautiful.” Dan replied, his arms tight around Phil middle. “So beautiful, I can’t believe it.” 

It was strange; all Phil had ever wanted was to see the world for what it was, craving the beauty he was blind to, devastated that his universe was one dimensional and incomplete. But today, this moment, it seemed as though the world was blind to him, but in a way that allowed him privacy in the arms of a stranger with whom he was already falling for. 

How did it know? Phil would wonder this several times throughout his life. How did the universe know that Dan, who was stubborn but sweet, who pretended to be dark and stormy, but was truly sweeter than honey, would complete him the way he did? How did it know that Dan’s laughter was music to Phil’s ears, tinkling and boisterous, that the beauty marks on his arms and back were the constellations in Phil’s starry skies? 

It wasn't the various shades of pink and orange that flooded the sky, but the sparkle in Dan’s eyes and the warmth of his body against Phil’s in the middle of the coldest winter nights that colored Phil’s days so beautifully. 

Dan was an artist, in his own quirky sort of way, and Phil loved him more than anything, even the art box of a world they, miraculously, had managed to find one another in, though he never could get enough of it. 

Blue was the sea early in the morning and the sky on the clearest days. Orange was bright and spirited, and green was fresh and clean and hopeful. 

But brown would always be Phil’s favorite color, especially the shade he found as he ran his thumbs beneath Dan’s eyes and kissed his forehead and pulled him close into his chest. 

Because an achromatic world is not necessarily an unbeautiful one, but it was nothing compared to this.


End file.
